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::INSIGHT::

What we see, we have already "read" as our visual cortex filters our perceptions down through the doors of our experiences. What we read is immediately transposed perceptually to some kind of image that is compatible with our imagination. Here you will find much to read, and lots to see.

He took her heart and put it in a jar
labelled 'used specimen'.
He smiled when he placed the lid on it.

He left her for her best friend who
in the past he'd referred to as
'juvenile and insipid'. And to think she
had encouraged this very same girl to buy
control underwear and blonde highlighting shampoo
(with a hint of infidelity).

He walked away with his music collection
in a red bag: 80s glam rock and the top 100
supermarket music hits.

All his secrets were in that bag:
a poem from his first girlfriend,
his stamp collection and a letter
from the tooth fairy saying
'Thank you for your lovely tooth'
in his mother's handwriting.

He left her, walking casually away
with his little red bag.
She would forgive him for everything,
eventually.

But not for taking her red umbrella.
What would she do now if it rains?

After WWII, when television was really being widely marketed in America (since people could actually afford them for the first time) one of the primary selling tactics—aside from Keeping Up with the Joneses—was family. ‘TV brings families together’ was the idea. Advertisements showed Mom and Dad, smoking Old Gold or Newport cigarettes on the living room couch with little Jimmy drinking his Ovaltine, awash in the heady glow of “Howdy Doody” or commercials for laundry soap. Together. Social mores were created as the neighborhood kids would come over to watch it while mom served cookies made from a package (also a shift in tradition).

The Baby Boomers grew up, drenched in this new TV zeitgeist. And then, somebody voiced that famous cry, ‘But What About the Children?’ Suddenly, TV was to blame for all of society’s ills. Obesity came from sitting too long (it couldn’t have anything to do with the proliferation of fast food restaurants or pre-packaged foods, the shift from rural to urban lifestyles, etc.). Social cohesion was deteriorating because now—instead of one TV in the living room bringing everyone together, most families had one in the living room, one in the bedroom, one in Little Jimmy’s room, and one in the kitchen for Mom to watch while she waited for the Valium to kick in. The dream was over. TV—you bastard. Look what you did to us? We trusted you! Well, fool me once, buddy.

But I would like to go on record in defense of TV. I think the problem isn’t so much the medium as the amount of exposure. I will also say that many of the ills blamed on TV already existed—TV just exposed us to them. And this is not necessarily a bad thing. That same pampered generation who grew up on TV—and then turned on it (let’s not call them “The Baby Boomers.” Let’s call them “The Judas Generation”) have forgotten just how important and useful TV can be for family togetherness. I’ve had some great times watching TV. Some of my fondest memories are of watching TV shows and movies on TV with my older brother. To be honest, it probably didn’t matter too terribly much what was on; we’d joke and laugh along with Mel Brooks’ movies and episodes of “Saturday Night Live” or “In Living Color.” We’d watch “The Twilight Zone” or “Dark Shadows”—really, it’s likely that my love of horror and sci-fi films came from shows like this, as well as watching slasher flicks on TV with my sister. In college, my friends and I watched “Mystery Science Theater 3000” and did our own versions while watching bad, bad movies. Quotes and allusions to TV shows and films run on TV (though edited) continue to color our lexicon. ‘Bugs Bunny’ cartoons, “3 Stooges” shorts, “MASH” reruns; references to these shows pop up in conversations I have with my family all the time. They are references to good memories that we share.

I’m not saying these shows were all high art (or any of them were), but to assume nothing worthwhile can be gained from any art that isn’t deemed “high” is to completely fail to understand some of the more important uses of art. (And to be a jerk.) Art can do a lot of things—educate, incite social discourse, impact us emotionally, etc.—but one thing it does well is leaves us changed in some way. Isn’t laughter a change?

Of course, an argument can be made that many TV shows have been very important. I mentioned “MASH”—as the show progressed, it shifted from straight comedy to social awareness, presenting ideas that might easily have been foreign to some young (and old) minds. Take Oprah—I’m not a fan, but she is an African American woman who appeared in the homes of millions of Americans five days a week, a woman many other women, and plenty of men, turned to for advice, whose influence was widely felt and accepted. This is no small feat in a country that remained segregated in many, many Midwestern, Northern, and Southern towns and suburbs through…well, even now, frankly. I don’t even need to mention the impact new broadcasts have had on us all.

TV can educate in more basic ways. I spent many Sunday afternoons with my father watching “Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom” and learning about nature and wildlife. Do I even need to mention “Sesame Street?” (Pre-Elmo, of course.)

Of course, there’s crap on TV. But there’s crap everywhere. So we have to sift through it. Also, TV is full of advertisements, the dangers of which…well, that’s a different essay altogether, I think. But nobody watches commercials. You surf or go get a drink of water or whatever.

But what I’m dancing around, here, is that question I dropped but didn’t answer: What about the children? The question is, will I use TV as a surrogate babysitter? Of course not. That’s bad parenting. I should go on record at this point and confuse the hell out of everyone by stating that I don’t actually have TV—we do own two sets, but neither of them receives any channels. We watch movies on them. We simply don’t have time to watch TV, so we don’t pay for it. But I will watch TV with my daughter. Some. I will show her reruns or DVDs of “The Muppet Show.” I will show her “Sesame Street.” When she gets older, we’ll watch Mel Brooks’ movies together, and “Airplane,” and all kinds of TV shows. Hell, we’ll probably break down and get TV cable at some point. And we’ll laugh. And maybe we’ll learn something. And we’ll quote them to each other and nobody else will know what we’re talking about. Unless they’ve seen these shows. But most people will just think we’re dorks. And that’s okay.

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Didn't she say she'd be on the later train because she was going to have her hair done after work ?
Oh no, it's raining hard. She won't like that.
I know what I'll do. I'll see if I can get to the station in time to get her brolly to her.
I'll take the bike, that's quicker.

Him, at the station, looking round:

No sign of her. No sign of anybody. The train must be late.

Passenger, hurrying, coming up from the platform:

You missed the train, mate, it's been and gone.

Him, on the platform, standing in the rain, wondering what to do:

Where can she be? Perhaps she waited for the next train?
I'll hang about a bit, see if she's on that one.

Her, at home, sitting over a cup of tea, as he walks in:

Where have you been? You are wet through. What was so urgent that it couldn't wait until after the rain? I've been back ages. When I came out of the hairdresser's and saw how hard it poured, I took a cab. Didn't fancy getting soaked.

past midnight, and the day
of preparations and waiting
turns in – the tubs are
full, flashlights within
arm’s reach, and
there is finally a steady
percussionist taking over
the rhythm section, all
windows covered
.

we are not so tough
after all, an entire
city lying in
wait, as the whisper of Irene
fills every bodega,
every alley, pulls
the brakes on the
last train as we scurry
home, armed
with shopping bags
of headlines and hearsay
.

Golden
•
there is a quiet golden
in this evening as it settles
unequaled in its beauty
by even that of precious metals
it embraces vesper’s hour
with a subtle gentle heat
lays down upon the land
like the roll of amber wheat
it dances in the air
strokes your hair aglow in smolders
folds its warmth upon your face
fondles fiery ’round your shoulders
it ignites a special magic
as though dreams are coming true
paints the world in a splendor
almost beautiful as you
a goddess of the sun
in this moment you catch fire
my heart a helpless tinder
now sparked by love’s desire
caught by beauty’s flame
I’m filled with passion’s yearning
my soul is set ablaze
please don’t leave me burning
before I am consumed
quench me with your precious kiss
for if I am to be consumed
I pray it be in bliss
• • •
rob kistner

Spared
•
how I do long
for the damp dreary days
of deep december
when my fallen face
of melancholy
is commonplace
when no one intrudes
to question what’s the matter
because all around
are caught up in the blues

oh if only
you could find it
in your heart
to forgive
this sadly lost
and broken man
who much too late
understands he was a fool
and in his sorrow
understands why you refuse

but how I wish
ill-tempered weather
would ensue
to drive the joyful
that mock around me
back indoors
so I’d be spared
the pain of smiling faces
and the bitter memory
of how much I did lose
• • •
rob kistner

Friday, August 26, 2011

back when i was trapping Ginastera
clusters, it was probably easier
for you to walk away, close many
doors behind you, stuff the cracks
with wet towels so that the vapors
from presto misterioso could not
follow.

but for some reason, you
stayed, chewed on each
microtone, twirled an aleatory
passage or two, asked me to
play this
or that measure again,
as if repetition could retrieve form
.

If love has a library of every book you’ll ever read
starting with great-uncle Cromagnon Mike’s hunting
yarns passed down to cousins Billy Bob and Billie Sue
in caves where bear flesh sustained the future you,

through the years when printing presses clacked
while you apprenticed in growing up and growing
towards museums about men walking on the moon
and men stirring glowing cauldrons of binary code,

all the way to the final pages your eyes will read
in print so enormous you think of it as Jupiter now,
consider my name swirled into each chapter’s art
and my heart the light that shines on every word.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Even if little boys in play
shd use a piece of grass or wood or a brush
or perhaps a fingernail
to draw an image of the Buddha
such persons as these
bit by bit will pile up merit
and will become fully endowed with a mind of great compassion;
they all have attained the Buddha way.
The buddha’s relics will circulate widely
--The Lotus Sutra

HD 10180, a yellow dwarf star like our own Sun, had five planets detected by the HARPS (High Accuracy Radial velocity Planet Searcher) programme at the European Southern Observatory. … Two further planets were discovered in the system towards the end of 2010, making it the most-populated planetary system to date.
--BBC 0ct 1, 2008

who but the giant’s
wife would have spruced
up jack’s beanstalk with
giantess flowers to
turn her husband’s
eventual fall into
a piece of art – stars
in gentle pursuit,
piling on top
of his still body
.

"These old photographs could go", she says. "Who would ever want to look at them again? There's only me now and I have no further interest in them. There won't be room for them in the retirement home".

She rummages around in the shoebox on the table in front of her and picks a photo at random. Peering at the faded print with her short-sighted eyes, she says to her carer: "Pass me my glasses, there's a dear. I might as well have a quick look through, although nothing much will come of it. It's all so long ago".

The picture is clearer now, she recognises faces. "Why, that's me and Ted and ........
She stops. A sudden flush of shame, hot and unpleasant, rises up in her. She feels her stomach turning over and a wave of nausea hits her.Who'd have thought that after all these years she'd suddenly feel guilty.

She stares at the picture. A window into the past opens up and, for the first time in sixty years, she allows herself to come face to face with the way she was.

She and Ted and . . . . yes, Shirley, that was her name . . . .
Best friends they were, the three of them; together as children and together as teenagers, all adventures, all secrets shared; others called them "The Three Musketeers"; there was no separating them.

How young they were, how innocent, a world of boundless possibilities awaiting them, the road ahead straight and even. When they were small they had sworn to be friends eternally; whatever happened, they would remain true to each other.

And then Ted and Shirley fell in love.

Suddenly, they were not three but two plus one; still friends, still close, still spending time together; like here, in the photo. She continued to stare at it, her hand shaking a little. She remembered clearly now, they were all off to the lake for a day's swimming and picnicking; happy and carefree, Ted and Shirley sitting in the back seat, probably holding hands, while she sat next to the driver, her dad, alone, in the front.

The shock of the realisation that her world was collapsing, that she was no longer part of an inseparable unit, hit her hard. She could see it in the eyes looking out at her from the photo; could also see the beginnings of the scheming girl she was about to become. Suddenly, she hated Shirley. She did not, and never could, hate Ted, for she too loved him.

She put the photo down.

It hadn't been hard to separate Ted and Shirley; she flirted and promised, she flattered and beguiled, until Ted had lost his head one summer's evening and kissed her.

No, it hadn't been hard at all.

Her eyes clouded over. Her marriage to Ted had been happy and contented for the most part, neither better nor worse than most marriages. She had no regrets.

"Get rid of the box", she said to the carer, as she slid the photograph back in between the others.

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